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Updated: June 10, 2025
"I'm done. I'm beaten. I'm whipped off the field." "You think you are not gaining ground?" she questioned. "My dear Lady Carfax," he said quietly, "it's no use closing one's eyes to the obvious. I'm losing ground every day every night." "But you are not fighting," she said. "No." He looked at her half-wistfully from under his heavy eyelids. "Do you think me quite despicable? I've done my best."
There was a young soldier of fortune named Carfax, recently discharged from the Pennsylvania State Constabulary, who seemed to feel rather sure of a commission in the British service. Beside him, leaning on the blistering rail, stood a self-possessed young man named Harry Stent. He had been educated abroad; his means were ample; his time his own.
"Shall I tell you what I do when I find myself very badly up against anything?" he said. "Yes, tell me." Instinctively she drew nearer to him. There was that about this man that attracted her irresistibly. "It's a very simple remedy," he said, "simpler than praying. One can't always pray. I just open the windows wide, Lady Carfax. It's a help even that." "Ah!" she said quickly.
Within half an hour the car stopped at the old-fashioned gateway of the Duke's Head in Norcaster market-place, and the clerk immediately led his two companions into the hotel and upstairs to a private sitting-room, at the door of which he knocked. A voice bade him enter; he threw the door open and announced the visitors. "Miss Harborough Mr. Brereton, Mr. Carfax," he said.
The staff captain’s lips formed the words, "Awfully sorry! Good luck!" but his articulation was indistinct, and he went off hurriedly, still murmuring. Carfax stood in the snow, watching him clamber down among the rocks, where an alpinist orderly joined them. Gary presently appeared at the door of the observation station. "Has he gone?" he inquired, without interest. "Yes," said Carfax.
Probably he had it done when he knew that your son and Miss Carfax had struck up a flirtation. It was he who forged a letter from Frank to Miss Carfax, enclosing the ring. By that means he hoped to create mischief which, if it had been nipped in the bud, could never have been traced to him. As matters turned out he succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.
It's the only way men ever get anywhere the politicians listen to them." She produced from her bag a gold pencil and a tablet. "Mrs. Ned Carfax is here from Boston I saw her for a moment at the hotel she's been here investigating for nearly three days, she tells me. I'll have her send you suffrage literature at once, if you'll give me your address."
But dry details such as these tell little of the quick pulse of popular life that beat in the thirteenth century through such a community as that of Oxford. The church of St. Martin in the very heart of it, at the "Quatrevoix" or Carfax where its four streets met, was the centre of the city life. The town-mote was held in its churchyard.
We in England tend perhaps to overrate the likelihood of such survivals. Our classical education has, until very lately, taught most of us more of ancient than of mediaeval history, and when our antiquaries find towns rectangular in outline and streets that cross in a Carfax, they give them a Roman origin. Such a tendency is wrong.
"And I wonder how you arrived at that conclusion," he said with a twist of the mouth that was scarcely humorous. She did not answer, for she felt utterly unequal to the discussion. They began to walk on down the mossy pathway. Suddenly an idea came to Dot. "I only wish Lady Carfax were here," she exclaimed impetuously. "She would know how to convince you of that." "Would she?" said Nap.
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